You Can Tell by the Shadows
by 2DLou
Summary: Sherlock and Joan confess their feelings.
1. Chapter 1

Sherlock gazed out the window at the street, watching passers-by as they made their way home in the late afternoon dusk. Their long shadows mixed with each other, making strangers appear like friends, friends like family, mere companions like lovers. Joan would be one of those residents coming home soon, he calculated. It still took him by surprise, the degree to which he looked forward to her return whenever she left the brownstone. She had been spending more and more time away from the brownstone, and away from investigative work. The hospital where she formerly worked had increasingly been seeking out her expertise in particularly difficult medical cases. There had been a time when Joan's absence was what he wanted most. The precise moment when that changed, Sherlock could not say. Were he more poetic, images of birds or flowers or sunrises would come to mind to help him explain it. Were he less honest, he would rationalize this emotional transformation by explaining the increased efficiency and productivity that Joan's presence created. As it was, all he could manage was a whispered, impatient, "Where is she?" After watching the street for a few more minutes, Sherlock took another sip of tea, wrinkling his nose at the cool liquid.

"Keep watch, Clyde," he directed the turtle, as he walked toward the kitchen, half focused on Joan's homecoming, half focused on Joan herself.

Waiting for the water to boil, Sherlock reflected that the progression of their relationship seemed almost imperceptible, identical both in its gradualness and in its speed. Her endless ramblings about recovery, as persistent as a gnat buzzing around his ear, developed into welcome encouragement. (Although, he admitted, her words and tone hadn't changed, merely his recognition of his need for them.) From sober companion – initially intrusive, then essential – to investigative associate. "She is my personal valet" became "I thrive in New York not because of who I am, but because of who I know." For him: first "Watson." Now "Joan." For her: always "Sherlock."

The possibility of there being even more advancement, a next step in their relationship, Sherlock thought, pouring more hot water into his cup, was not without its appeal. From Joan being his associate to -. To what? Lover? Girlfriend? Friend with Benefits? While obviously fraught with complications, it was not out of the realm of possibility for him. For her as well, Sherlock knew. Or at least, so he hoped. He would never insult Joan by considering her to be an open book, but as a man of details, discerning Joan's responses to him was almost as easy as interpreting a suspect's facial tics and verbal inflections during an interrogation. The flush on her face when he accidentally bumped into her in the hallway. The slight trembling of her hand after it lightly brushed his, after he's given her a cup of tea. The glint in her eye when she's trying not to encourage his irascible behavior, but failing. All of those, he had faith, were proof of her personal feelings for him.

His own reactions to her were equally as physically evident, to him, if more unconventional. Training her in self-defense. Leaning over her shoulder as he guided her through the finer points of handwriting analysis. And the best part of his day – sitting in a chair at the end of her bed, daring himself to watch her sleep for one more minute before reluctantly waking her from her slumber. These are performed under the guise of professionalism. At least that is what he always hoped she thought. Only he knows that they are the only ways that he can show that he cares for her, wants to protect her, needs to always be around her. Loves her.

He believed that he had been hiding his feelings for her fairly well. Until the near-kiss a week ago.


	2. Chapter 2

"Are you trying to cool off the kitchen?" Joan asked, walking into the dark kitchen and noticing Sherlock absentmindedly standing in front of the open refrigerator. After not getting a response, she came up behind him and gently nudged him out of the way with her hip, closing the refrigerator door. After living with Sherlock for almost two years, she had become accustomed to his near-fugue states when he was trying to work out a particularly complex part of an investigation. She had observed Sherlock staring aimlessly for ten minutes at a picture taped to what she affectionately calls his "crazy wall." He'd let eggs burn, and the tea pot boil over. Once, passing by the bathroom, she had stopped and witnessed him brushing his teeth for fifteen minutes, oblivious to his own – and her - reflection in the mirror. He once tore an entire head of lettuce into Clyde's tank before she grabbed it out of his hands and Sherlock finally registered her presence.

"What?" Sherlock asked, turning around. He leaned against the counter, and his eyes re-focused on Joan. "Ah. This case has become infuriating," he said, referring to the investigation that Gregson had requested their assistance on. "How does a relatively simple bank robbery become a blackmail scheme, which then becomes a kidnapping, which then becomes a murder?" His left hand had begun slightly twitching, indicating his agitation.

Noticing the redness of his eyes, and the deepened creases in his face, "Sherlock," Joan whispered. "When was the last time you slept?"

"Is that my former sober companion speaking?" he inquired, the exhaustion obvious in his voice.

"No," she said, her right hand slowly reaching out to gently grasp his left. "It's your current friend speaking."

Sherlock's eyes quickly met Joan's, before darting to the dark corners of the kitchen. _Friend. _That was not a word that Sherlock had ever used himself, in describing their relationship. Although he hadn't objected when Joan had used it in describing how far Sherlock had come, in relation to the monograph written by Sherlock's ex-lover and FBI agent. If rankings were to be given, Sherlock would readily concede that, of the two, Joan was the better friend. Her generosity, concern, and constant support – not simply towards Sherlock, but to most everyone she met – were often not reciprocated by him. It wasn't that Sherlock didn't care. Quite the contrary. His affection for Joan had grown exponentially since their first meeting. And that affection had subtly metamorphosed into desire. What to do about that desire, however, had become quite the conundrum.

Sherlock finally settled his gaze over Joan's shoulder, on a point on the far wall. "I slept three days ago," he admitted.

"You should get some sleep," she said, keeping her right hand enclosed around Sherlock's left, while reaching out with her left to touch Sherlock's face. "I worry about you," she added quietly.

Reflexively, Sherlock closed his eyes and took a shallow intake of breath. "I have functioned quite ably on even less sleep." He let her hand remain on his face for a few more seconds, before lightly taking his right hand and pushing it aside.

"That's before it made a difference to me," Joan admonished. "Were you looking for something to eat? I think you're out of luck."

Sherlock opened his eyes again and softly focused on Joan's face. "Do you?"

"Well, there are probably some lemons. And maybe a few eggs. But that's about it."

"No," Sherlock corrected, slightly tightening his hand around hers. "You said you worry about me. Do you?"

"Yes," Joan replied.

"Even when you were my sober companion, you were not responsible for keeping me from relapsing. Your responsibility is even less now."

"That's not what I meant. Of course I know that you could relapse. No one knows that better than you, obviously. But I don't worry about your sobriety. I worry that you will work too hard. Not take care of yourself. I worry that you will keep yourself cut off from other people." _I worry that you will no longer need me_, she wanted to add.

"I don't rely on people the way that others do," explained Sherlock. It occurred to him that he and Joan were still holding hands, but he did not yet want to surrender the physical contact.

In responding to her, he had lightly stressed the word "people". Sherlock had learned early - and quite frequently - to depend solely on himself. The few instances where he had allowed someone – Mycroft, Moriarty – access into his inner life, he had eventually been violated. Not physically, of course; his sexual relationship with Moriarty was always consensual. But emotionally. With both Moriarty and Mycroft, he felt as if walls had been breached, only to have new walls put up in their place. But Sherlock had grown to rely not on people, but on Joan. Without his even noticing it, she had not so much penetrated his barriers as scaled them. Although unwilling to tolerate his caustic nature for any extended bit of time, and averse to letting him indulge in it for long as well, Joan had proven to Sherlock that she accepted him for who he is. As long as he was truly honest about who he is. And who he is, he had discovered, is not just an investigator with little time for professional manipulation or personal platitudes. He is also, he had found, a man who can watch a full nine innings of a baseball game despite having no actual interest in the pastime. A man who can offer support to others suffering through the throes of addiction. A man who can offer his home – and his heart – to another person.

"You don't do most things like others do," Joan quipped.

Perhaps it was the lowering of his defenses due to fatigue. Or the way that the streetlights cast shadows across Joan's face. But Sherlock gently pulled her against him, one of her legs caught in between his. "Care to test out that theory in other areas?" Sherlock winced almost immediately after the words left his mouth. He hadn't planned on being so seductive, so absurdly obvious, in his intentions. Until a minute ago, he hadn't had any intentions at all. It is not as if he hadn't thought of kissing Joan before. Of making love to Joan. But he had imagined that it would occur more organically. Perhaps while they were poring over case files one late night, heads nearly touching, a strand of her hair hanging down her face, his hand reaching out to push it aside…..Not after some corny, juvenile come-on in a dark kitchen.

If Joan felt any inappropriateness regarding Sherlock's proposition, she did not outwardly reveal it. Her actions, in fact, indicated the opposite. Wordlessly, she looked up at Sherlock, released his hand and touched his face again. This time with the same amount of care as before, but with an added concentration. Her fingers traced across his brow line, down his cheek, and across the borders of his jawline. She felt the muscle tense beneath her fingertips. She parted her lips slightly and leaned forward.

From the other room, the sound of someone's cell phone disturbed the silence.

One ring. Then another.

"Gregson said that he would be calling with an update." Joan had to clear her throat.

"Yes," said Sherlock, not releasing his eyes from her.

A third ring. Joan turned to look behind her, as if expecting to see someone else rushing to answer the phone. She dropped her hands, hoping to hide her disappointment, and partial relief.

"Ahhhh," Sherlock rumbled low in his throat. "Well," he added abruptly.

Fourth ring.

"Infernal contraptions!" he exclaimed, moving quickly past Joan to pick up the device in the other room.

Standing alone in the kitchen, Joan, holding on the kitchen counter, watched him until there was only his shadow to keep her company.


	3. Chapter 3

That moment in the kitchen was never discussed. There was, however, a noticeable increase in the tension between them. While superficially the nature of their relationship was the same, especially to an outsider looking in, the more routine aspects had been altered. Pots of tea were still shared, but now usually in separate rooms, rather than across the kitchen table or in front of a computer screen. Gone were the personal wake-up calls, her finding Sherlock sitting in her bedroom, ready to regale her with his latest revelation about a case. It was rare that Joan and Sherlock spent a late afternoon like they presently were. Joan had finally made it home and they were in the same room, she reading a medical journal on the sofa, while he sat by the fire, looking over crime scene photos from a case he was considering taking.

After a half hour, Sherlock abruptly shifted in his seat and dared to disrupt the companionable silence.

"So are we going to talk about it?"

"_It_?" Joan asked, looking over the tops of her glasses.

Sherlock again shifted in his chair. "The kiss," he confirmed, directing his eyes first to the fire next to him, then back to Joan.

"I wasn't sure that you had registered that it happened. Or if you had, that you would even remember it," she sighed, setting the journal down next to her on the sofa.

"When have you known me not to remember something?" he asked.

Joan paused. "I don't need to talk about it…..," she responded haltingly. "…if you'd rather not."

Rubbing his fingertips on the fabric of his pants, Sherlock tried to calm his characteristically erratic movements. "It's not that I…..That is to say, I think that we…."

"It's fine, Sherlock," Joan interjected, saving him – and herself – from further awkwardness. "It was an aberration. How did you describe my having sex with your brother? A free radical into our otherwise highly functional relationship? We can just consider this another free radical."

"No," Sherlock stated adamantly. "We are adults, are we not? We can be adults about this."

"By all means," Joan smirked. "Let's be adults."

An electric silence settled between them.

Settling back into the chair, "You expected that I should go first?" Sherlock extended, a slight smile on his face.

"You brought it up," Joan challenged. "I told you that we didn't need to talk about it."

"I think that for the sake of our relationship, a conversation is in order."

"Which relationship are we supposed to be considering?" Joan asked, leaning into the corner of the sofa and stretching her legs out next to her. "Our professional one, or our personal one?"

"Watson….," Sherlock jerked his head slightly. "Joan," he began again. "I think that they have become one and the same." Then, after a brief pause, "Do you disagree?"

"Our lives have become rather intertwined."

Sherlock rose from his chair, centering himself, but remained across the room from Joan. "I do not wish to be disentangled."

"What are you saying?" Joan remained seated. The weightiness of the conversation descended upon her.

From her tone, Sherlock tried to ascertain a clue to Joan's thoughts. "I have come to realize that you are important to me, Joan. No, that's not true. I've known for a long time that you were important to me. Within days of your being hired to be my sober companion, I knew it. That's why I was so pleased when you agreed to become my professional partner. But you will not want to do this work forever, I am sure. And when that time comes….." He absentmindedly waved a hand in the air, as if to cast the possibility from his mind.

Joan responded, finally rising from the sofa, "What makes you think that I'm going to quit working with you?"

"Your medical work has been taking more and more of your attention. I'm not complaining," he added quickly. "I told you some time ago that you'd probably return to practicing medicine. You were good at that. I believe that you have missed it."

"I would miss you more," Joan said, walking slowly towards him. "I know that you've appreciated our relationship. I have too. But not just our work as police consultants. I consider you a friend. More than a friend."

Sherlock let out a sigh. "My reliance on you has gone beyond preventative and professional. As you well know, the number of people whom I like is small. Of people whom I respect, smaller still." He approached Joan, head down. "Of people whom I love, the number is singular."

Joan reached out her hand to grasp Sherlock's. The crackling of the fire seemed to barely camouflage the beating of her heart. "I will never leave you. I don't know what will happen to me professionally. But whatever I am doing, I never want to leave this brownstone. I never want to leave your heart. I love you."

Sherlock closed the remaining inches between them, gathering Joan in his arms. "I am glad you're home."

* * *

Outside, a young child walked with her mother in front of the brownstone. As they walked back home from the park, the two had been playing a game they had made up, called "Who lives there?" So far, the child had decided that circus performers, astronauts, and a spy lived in the apartment building on the corner. A famous actress must live in the modern structure right next to that, she insisted. And in the black building with the turret lived, naturally, a princess.

"Mommy," the young girl said, "I bet people who love each other live in that house."

"What makes you say that?" replied the mother, looking up and down the height of the building.

"You can tell from the shadows."


End file.
